


Life, sometimes it washes over me

by odainath



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odainath/pseuds/odainath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't bring himself to hate her like his mother does.  Matthew Benton reflects on life, drugs and one Emily Prentiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life, sometimes it washes over me

_**{ Life, sometimes it washes over me }**_  
 **Life, sometimes it washes over me  
** pre-series; Matthew Benton, Emily Prentiss _(Criminal Minds)  
He can't bring himself to hate her like his mother does._

   
*

 _do my eyes  
do my eyes seem empty?  
I've forgotten how this feels._

 __*

 

He studies her in the harsh light. Already, her bare arms have the mottled flush of cold, but the fine hairs there have yet to prick with shivering.

“Em?”

She turns at the sound of his voice, tilting her head to the side, a silent question.

“It's getting-” he begins, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

She nods and says nothing further as she walks past him, bare arm brushing against his woollen jumper. She has been like this for two weeks now, cold and distant, but _sometimes_ (only sometimes) he sees something in her eyes that makes him stop before he can open his mouth and ask 'what's wrong?'

Because it's fear that he sees and Emily Prentiss, _Emily Prentiss_ , is not one to be afraid.

  
-o-

  
He finds her one week later, heaving the contents of her stomach into the toilet, and the answer to his unasked question flashes like a light bulb. She sees him falter and her eyes grow wide and her mouth forms an 'o' but no words come out. She expects him to walk out, he realises, to think her a slut and refuse to see her again.

Instead, he moves forward and pulls her hair back as she leans forward and vomits again. Finally, there is nothing left and he touches her shoulder, taken aback when she twists around and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of her neck.

  
-o-

  
Emily leans into him, tears streaming down her face as they leave the church. Inside, Matthew fumes, unable to understand why, _why_ , this man (priest, his brain reminds him) thought fit to turn Emily away.

“ _You shalt not murder,”_ he had said repeatedly, his voice harsh and stern.

“But-”

Emily had pulled him away then, her hand squeezing his so tightly that it hurt, and dragged him away.

“Am I evil?” she asks, dark eyes looking up at him, searching for an answer.

“Of course not,” he says firmly, drawing her to his chest. “Of course not.”

  
-o-

  
He finds his doctor, after much searching, and leads her inside. She is shaking, eyes wandering around the room, taking in the sterile-white walls, the metal table. _(Morbidly, he thinks it looks more like a morgue than a doctor's surgery.)_

 __Afterward, he takes Emily to a hotel. She falls asleep almost immediately, lying on her back, one arm draped across her stomach, the other stretched out. She looks almost peaceful, he thinks, if you ignored the downward twist of her mouth.

“ _Matthew_?”

He is at her side in a moment, worry making his stomach twist. He had done his research, and the doctor had a good reputation but it was a risky operation and he is no fool.

“Get some rest,” she continues, nodding toward the opposite side of the bed.

He pauses, not wanting to lie down, but his eyes are heavy and when he tries to smother a yawn Emily gives a soft laugh.

“I trust you, Matthew,” she whispers, “now, lie down.”

He swallows but does as she asks and slides beneath the covers. She turns towards him, holding her hand out, and he entwines his fingers with hers.

  
-o-

  
He lets the bottle roll down his palm, almost letting it fall, before curling his fingers back. The doctor had given Emily a small bottle of morphine but she had refused to take even one pill, throwing it away the first chance she could. Matthew had fished it out the instant she turned her back, thinking she might change her mind, but three weeks later and he knew he was keeping it for reasons he didn't fully understand.

“Matthew?”

Her voice jolts him into the present and he starts, quickly pushing the bottle into his pocket.

“You all right?” she asks, concern laced within her voice.

“Fine,” he answers, giving her a smile.

She frowns, not believing him, but lets it go.

  
-o-

  
Euphoric.

That's the only word to describe how he feels right now. Another day, another sermon, more disapproving glances from Father Guimino and his parents and it all became too much. A quick twist to open the bottle, a _'pop'_ to break the seal and finally, _finally_ , the feel of the tablet on his tongue.

He chews quickly, washing it down with a glass of water, and waits.

And, by god, it's worth it.

  
-o-

  
He's lying on his bed, spaced out on a high when Emily enters and barely notices as she rifles through his satchel, his drawers, cupboards. She looks upward, frowning at the ceiling fan, and he sits upright as she turns it off and stands on a chair, waiting patiently for it to stop turning. She reaches upward and feels about, her hand finally landing on the bottle he has taped to the top of the fan blade.

“Matthew,” she whispers, and he thinks his heart breaks a little bit.

It's a new bottle (he'd run out of hers a while ago), and she holds it tightly, enough that her knuckles turn white.

“You have to stop,” she says softly.

He nods, so high that he'd agree with anything, but leaps to his feet when she steps down from the chair and walks to the door, still holding the bottle.

“Give it back.”

He barely recognises his own voice, but doesn't care, his attention riveted on that small plastic bottle.

Emily flinches back but holds her chin up.

“No,” she says firmly. “You need to stop.”

He moves forward again, but she is faster and darts out of the room, the sound of her footsteps fading as she hurries down the hallway.

  
-o-

  
He stops, for her sake, and their roles reverse. This time it's _her_ holding his fringe back as he vomits into the toilet, _her_ who holds him close as he sobs into her chest.

“I'm so sorry, Emily,” he breathes into the nape of her neck.

“Me too,” she whispers back.

  
-o-

  
He sits on the edge of her bed as she packs, passing her neatly folded clothes that she places in a suitcase. Her mother has been re-posted, to Russia, and she leaves in three days. They finish soon enough and she sits down, close enough that their shoulders touch.

“I wish I didn't have to go.”

She says it quickly, as if afraid, and he nods and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“I know, Em.”

  
-o-

  
Emily leaves and he waits until the plane has taken off before walking out of the airport. He spots a public phone box outside and moments later he is inside, pushing coins into the chute and dialling a number he thought he'd forgotten.

“Yup?”

“I need something, _anything_.”

A laugh at the other end of the line.

“You know where to find me.”

  
-o-

  
Cocaine is good for a quick fix, morphine if he wants it to last a while longer. He finds that he doesn't care, just so long as he doesn't have to think, have to justify to his parents why he is doing this.

“If it wasn't for Emily Prentiss-” his mother begins, and he stands abruptly and crosses the room, leaning down until they are nose-to-nose.

“You don't know anything about Emily Prentiss,” he says slowly, enunciating every word carefully.

“I know what she's done to you,” his mother retorts instantly.

He laughs without humour. “She had nothing to do with this.”

It's a lie, a huge one, he wouldn't be here if it weren't for her, but he can't bring himself to hate her like his mother does.

  
-o-

  
His parents throw him out ('tough love' his father calls it) and he works his way to Rome. He does anything to feed his habit; cleaning hotel rooms, working tables, and is wiping down vomit when an all-too-familiar voice calls out behind him.

“Matthew.”

When he turns she is only three feet away and it seems natural to reach out and wrap his arms around her, burying his face in the nape of her neck, running one hand through her hair. She doesn't flinch, despite his appearance, instead she holds him just as tight.

  
-o-

  
“I can stop any time I want, I'm not a junkie,” he states flatly as they sit in a cafe, drinking coffee.

Emily raises an eyebrow, then reaches out and pushes up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing needle marks.

“Don't bullshit me, Matthew.”

He laughs, not having heard her swear before, but sobers immediately.

“Emily-”

“How long since your last fix?” she interrupts. “A few hours?”

He shrugs, deciding not to tell her he can count down to the last minute how long it's been.

“You're already starting to shake,” she continues, nodding towards his leg.

He says nothing, choosing instead to look down at the table.

“Let me help you.”

He raises his head, expecting to see pity, but instead there is only worry in her eyes. She knows that he got himself into this mess.

It's this realisation more than anything that makes him nod his head.

  
-o-

  
She's so much stronger than him, he thinks, as she makes his bed, smoothing out the sheets. It's been a week and neither have left the hotel room.

“You're doing great,” she has told him repeatedly when his body convulses and the cold sweats begin. “You're doing great.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak, and closes his eyes.

  
-o-

  
“I got accepted into Yale,” she tells him over breakfast when they finally leave the hotel room.

“Oh?” he says, thinking he knows where this is going.

“Term starts in a fortnight,” she continues, proving him correct.

“So, you're leaving.”

It sounds like an accusation.

She dips her head down only briefly before making eye contact once again. “You could come back with me?”

It's a question, and while he wants to give her the answer she wants, he knows he can't keep using her like this.

“I'm not a charity case, Emily,” he says.

She shakes her head. “No, but you are a friend.”

He laughs and reaches out, running his fingers along the back of her hand. “Thanks, Emily, but-”

“No thanks?” she finishes.

He laughs.

“Something like that.”

-o-

  
She pushes a slip of paper with her phone number written on it into his hand, making him promise to call her every three days.

He nods, agreeing, and she walks away again, waving back at him when she gets past the barriers. He leaves the airport, and walks past the phone box (the same one from all those years ago) and thinks it a minor victory.

  
-o-

  
Six months later he has a needle in his arm; Emily's phone number is a pile of ash in the fireplace.

  
-o-

  
He hides.

From Emily, from his parents, from everyone who's every mattered in his life. Through friends of friends he learns that she is trying to find him, has put feelers out, has even used some of her mother's connections.

So he hides better, falls deeper.

He doesn't want her to see him like this.

  
-o-

  
He thought himself good, but Emily proves better, and finds him spaced out in a bar. He is surrounded by dangerous people but she doesn't spare them a second glance as she marches up to him and holds out her hand.

“Come on,” she says, and he finds himself obeying.

His 'friends' look as if they're going to protest but their eyes look from the hard line of mouth then fall to her side-arm and they back away whispering _'fed_.'

She drags him out and bundles him into her car and together they drive to her apartment. She doesn't say a word as she opens the door and lets him inside. On the kitchen bench are a detoxing addict's dream; methadone, and he itches to use the syringe he sees wrapped in plastic.

“Please?”

It's the first word she's spoken since the bar and he finds himself nodding.

  
-o-

  
But it's a lie and that night he leaves, taking the contents of her purse and the methadone with him.

  
-o-

  
Years pass and he doesn't hear from her (perhaps she's finally given up on him, though he thinks it's most likely that he's become more adept at hiding) and his habit worsens until he finds himself in Spain, with two other disenchanted men.

“Tell me how it works,” he begs Father Del Toro (he's the one who most reminds him of Father Guimino.)

The priest frowns, not understanding the question. Not that Matthew really expected him to.

After all, the bible the man adhered to was full of paradoxes, how could anyone (even a priest) give a clear answer?

  
-o-

  
He gets back to America, sees his parents.

They look at him, all six-foot and gaunt, before his arms are wrenched behind his back and he is dragged to the bedroom. His hands and feet are bound to the bedposts, the rope burns against his skin as he fights.

His own father holds him down and he spits _'coward'_.

For that's what this man is.

He holds back a bitter smile.

That's what he is as well. He let himself fall into a downward spiral, let his life unravel, pushed away the only person who every truly cared about him.

 _Yes_ , he thinks again, _coward_.

  
*

  
 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Criminal Minds, no copyright infringement is intended. Title comes from 'I've Been High' by R.E.M.   
 


End file.
